


soda glass

by rnadison



Category: American Vandal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - St. Bernardine, M/M, Mutual Pining, Season 2 - Canon Divergent, The One Where Sam Moves Away, full of miscommunications ........ missed opportunities, ming 'i am so done with you both' zhang, what else is new !
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-08
Updated: 2018-12-09
Packaged: 2019-09-14 01:24:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,415
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16903473
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rnadison/pseuds/rnadison
Summary: But not a lot of people had smiles like Sam; the ones that authors wrote about in Peter’s favorite books, the ones that could literally light up rooms, but Sam did. Of course Sam did. Sam wasn’t other people.The “butterflies in the stomach,” the “thrumming electricity,” the “he takes my breath away,” the “I don’t see anyone else” -- all those god-awful tropes from Sam’s B-list romance movies, they’re all so, so real, almost embarrassingly so. But for Peter, “it would never happen” is even more crushingly real.Because it won’t. Not with 1200 miles and some guy named Drew Pankratz between them.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> i was writing a paper about wes anderson's rushmore, and the aesthetic of that movie began to blur in a v unsettling way with american vandal, lolol. 
> 
> title is from "soda glass" by emily kinney. honestly ... the entirely mood of this fic is that song. 
> 
> i'm trying something new writing wise??? i realized i ramble on way too much in my previous writing klklsflkdf. so this will be more .. prose-y ??

_The first time Peter Maldonado ever had writer’s block was in elementary school._

_Fourth grade, to be precise. In a classroom smelling of fresh Clorox wipes and the omnipresent scent of crayons, their assignment had been to write a paragraph describing their best friend in the class. Even as the teacher was still speaking, Peter glanced around the room warily; the peas-in-pods kids were all exchanging gleeful looks, and not one of them is looking his way._

_Well, that’s fine-just-fine with him. As everyone starts drifting into pairs, Peter sat at his desk contemplating his paper. He could write about his cousin Ben, who, at 10, was the closest in age to him at all the family gatherings. Or maybe Bitsy, the kitten that they’d adopted just last year. But a few minutes pass and his pencil remains suspended in midair, the paper before him empty._

_Chatter rises and falls around him, and his eyes drift to the colorful map of the United States that hangs by the clock. This wouldn’t be so difficult if Mom hadn’t decided to move from Arizona in the middle of the year. Everything here in Oceanside is violently blue and green -- colors he hadn’t seen much of in Tucson. In fact, he hadn’t even seen the ocean until Mom took him to the fishing pier, and Peter had peered through the gaps in the railing and watched the torrents of blue and grey swirl beneath them. It was cool, but also a little terrifying. Peter had had a sudden, unnerving feeling that if he leaned over for too long, some unknown force was going to yank him right in, and had quickly stumbled back to the safety of his mother._

_But then again, he supposes he’d miss Tucson more if the people there missed him, too._

_He’s immediately pulled from his thoughts when another boy drops into the seat across from him. He’s got a bright pink buttoned down layered over a green tee, but he doesn’t seem to care how bad the colors clash. Peter’s only been in this class for a few weeks, but he recognizes him. The pink-and-green combo isn’t the only loud outfit he’s seen from this kid.  He fixes Peter with a bright smile._

_“Hi! Is it okay if I sit here?”_

_Dumbfounded, tinged with just a bit of shyness, Peter can only give a wordless nod. Like Peter would say no. He’s already sitting there, anyway._

_“I’m Sam. Well, Samuel, but I hate that. Only my mom calls me that, when I’m in trouble.”_

_Peter gives another nod. “Um. Peter,” he says by way of introduction._

_The boy, Sam, leans forward. He has ears that stick out like Dumbo’s. “I have a confession to make,” he announces._

_Peter’s eyebrows pitch up, wildly curious._

_“My best friend isn’t actually in this class. She’s in sixth grade.” Sam’s chest puffs out in this show of importance. “So will you be my best friend, in this class?”_

_Peter’s mouth opens and closes. No one had ever been so direct with him before. Well -- other kids had certainly been direct, but it had usually been the exact opposite of this situation._ _  
_

_“Um … are you sure?”_

_Sam’s mouth falls open in hyperbolic indignation. He splutters. “Am I sure? Of course! Who else am I gonna pick? One of_ these _clowns?”_

_Some of the other kids nearby cast an annoyed glance at him, but he doesn’t seem to care. Peter has to crack a little bit of a smile at that. Sam hoists an elbow over the desk, pinky out. He gives a hopeful raise of his eyebrows, his eyes sparkling._

_“So whaddaya say? Best friends?”_

_For the first time, Peter allows one corner of his mouth to tilt up. He hooks his pinky around Sam’s. “Best friends.”_

_Sam leans back, and pulls out a notebook from his backpack. “Well -- let’s get started then!”_

* * *

A year later, it’s still a little hard to believe.

Peter had expected that, by now, he’d be over it. That the whole incident would have scabbed and fallen away, leaving him brand new. Or some semblance of it, anyway. He kind of figured things would never be the same after Sam left.

Last summer, the Ecklunds had moved 1200 miles north to Bellevue, Washington, for some newspaper job that Sam’s father had gotten there. Peter remembers how tense Sam’s house had been the spring of their sophomore year; Sam didn't really talk about it, but from Peter's understanding, the _Oceanside Herald_ had been “downsizing,” and his father had unfortunately been included in the cut. That was why so much of the doc had been filmed at Peter’s -- out of sight, out of mind, at least for a little while.

But then Sam had actually … moved. And it had been hard to get out of his mind ever since.

Peter doesn't really remember that summer. He remembers the boxes stacking at Sam's house. His room slowly becoming more and more empty. And then he was just... gone.

The world had kept turning, of course. _American Vandal_ continued to do really, really well -- it had even caught the attention of Netflix, a slick, edited version of their documentary right up there with _Making A Murderer_ and _Serial._ Which had been absolutely insane.

On a smaller scale, a new co-anchor was chosen for the Morning Show. New leads for the school plays. A new family moved into the Ecklunds’ old house. New, new, new -- so why does it feel like Peter’s the one who’s not moving forward?

Peter’s seen pictures Sam had posted with other people. (People from his new school. Cast parties. Girls. Boys.) And him and Sam had texted. They texted a lot. But Peter hadn’t seen him since March-- hadn’t even heard his voice since, according to his call log, July. Honestly, he can’t even remember it. He can’t remember ever thinking about Sam’s voice before. He knows it’s not deep or rumbling or anything -- he’s way too much of a twig to hold that kind of power -- but it’s not exactly high-pitched, either. It’s just a voice that, even if he can’t think of it right now, he knows he’ll know it the second he hears it.

He can’t even really remember what Sam looks like, not in motion, anyway. He even finds himself struggling to remember what color Sam’s eyes are. Not that it matters. But he figures it’s still something he should know, and every time he looks through his camera roll, he comes to a different conclusion. Blue. Green. Blue-green?

(It depends on the light, really. He’s never been sure.)

There’s Instagram, but Sam doesn’t really post much. He’s never in the videos he takes for his Stories. And they still have their Snapchat streak too, going on almost 900 days now, but they’re long past the point of sending actual selfies. All that’s left of Sam Ecklund in Oceanside are the pictures on Peter’s wall, the pictures that live in his phone, and the memories that they dredge up in Peter's brain. 

Like the time Sam had somehow managed to spill an entire root beer float all over the table at the eighth grade semi-formal.  _Top 10 Photos Taken Just Before Disaster,_ Peter liked to think whenever he glanced over the image, his thirteen-year-old self's eyes somehow closed in the flash, the float in question just by Sam's elbow on the table. 

Or the time they'd stayed up all night watching Del Toro's entire oeuvre in ninth grade, because how were they supposed to tell good stories if they didn't watch any? Sam had cried twice that night, once at  _Pan's Labyrinth_ and the other at  _Pacific Rim._  It's something he'd vehemently deny when it's brought up, butit shows in a badly lit photo of Sam on the couch at around three A.M. on the night in question, eyes watery with half his face covered by his hand.

But Sam doesn’t seem to be missing him as much anymore. Like the 1200 miles between them suddenly doesn’t matter. From what Sam does post on Instagram, the last two photos have had the same boy in them with him. Some guy named Drew Pankratz. There's a rare selfie of them in their matching maroon cardigans and ties, bearing the St. Bernardine crest on the left breast. Sam holding what Peter can only assume is a grande ice mocha with two espresso shots.  _My friends are better than yours,_ read the caption. _t_ _hanks for the coffee @d.pankratz._

Then, a photo from the opening of the St. Bernardine production of _Twelfth Night,_ both in full Shakespeare garb. Sam's eyes were closed, caught mid-laugh, with Drew serenading him with one of the prop lutes.  _If music be the food of love, play on!! #stberniedramadept photo @nikkistephh._

(That one had really stung.)

Peter’s not really sure when it happened -- when his once-sleeping heart had suddenly woken up and rang the alarm bells in his head. But it happened. And he’d tried to kill those feelings, at first. Tried to beat them down because Peter Maldonado was not Like That, and even if he was, he certainly wouldn’t be Like That over his best friend.

But not a lot of people had smiles like Sam; the ones that authors wrote about in Peter’s favorite books, the ones that could literally light up rooms, but Sam did. Of course Sam did. Sam wasn’t other people.

The “butterflies in the stomach,” the “thrumming electricity,” the “he takes my breath away,” the “I don’t see anyone else” -- all those god-awful tropes from Sam’s B-list romance movies, they’re all so, so real, almost embarrassingly so. But for Peter, “it would never happen” is even more crushingly real.

Because it won’t. Not with 1200 miles and some guy named Drew Pankratz between them.

It sucks, and he’s totally, most definitely screwed, but then what didn’t, and when isn’t he?

* * *

The rain patters gently on Peter’s window, and he pulls the throw tighter around him, the light from his laptop the only source of light in the room. The email account for _Vandal_ had been blowing up more than ever recently, with potential cases ranging from serial dick sky-drawers to, more seriously, an actual murder (Peter has yet to reply to that one). There are a few he’s starred, but he has to forward them on to Sam first. Nothing has really caught their attention, though, except for a case in Colorado involving someone smearing semen on the bathroom walls. Truly, a visionary.

His phone lights up with a text from the Morning Show GroupMe: Madison Kaplan asking if someone can please take her lunch lady segment tomorrow, since she would be late. Peter’s about to reply -- it’s an easy segment, honestly -- when his email alert chirps again.

 **_Sam Ecklund_ ** _-_ _greeneggsnsam@gmail.com_ _-_ **_new case._ **

Peter reels back, bewildered. Sam never emails him.

_Hey Pete, forget Colorado, something fucking crazy is happening at St. Bernardine. It’s kind of hard to explain so here’s a video._

_The insta I mention is @theturdburglar._

_Hope this finds you well._

Attachment: MOV11_09_17.mp4

 


	2. Chapter 2

**MING ZHANG,** _2nd cameraman and soundman_ **:** All set?

 **SAM ECKLUND,** _transfer student, senior, Vice President of the St. Bernardine Drama Club:_ Uh-huh. Yeah. Wow, it’s super weird to be on the other side of the camera.

 **PETER MALDONADO,** _producer, director, me_ : So do you mind walking us through what happened on November 6?

 **SAM** : Uh, sure. I actually remember it was a really nice day.

 **PETER:** What makes you say that?

 **SAM** : ‘Cause it’d already started getting colder in, like, October, so it was surprisingly warmer. They have seasons here, Pete. You and your crusty grey hoodie from 9th grade would absolutely die.  
_Note: It’s a great hoodie. --PM._

 **SAM:** So anyway … there was a scheduled fire drill in second period. We have them like, twice a year, so I didn’t really think much of it. It was during chem, though, so that was pretty sweet.

 **PETER:** Take me through lunch that day.

 **SAM:**  Usually I have lunch in the library with my friend, Drew. Just new kid things. But I remember that a bunch of kids were super excited because it was Chicken Finger Monday. I’ve had them a few times and they’re pretty good. I've even seen some of the nuns get them. If, like, on pain of death, I had to name one school to have chicken nuggets from for the rest of my life, it’d be St. Bernardine.  
_Note: Don't get me wrong, I missed Sam, but I'd forgotten how dramatic he can be. But then again, I suppose he didn't win VP of the Drama Club for nothing._

 **PETER:** What did you have for lunch that day?

 **SAM:** I had to crank out an essay before fourth, so I got a Double Shot Espresso from the vending machine. The Starbucks cans.

 **PETER:** Sam --

 **SAM:** Oh, right, product placement. Uh, a mocha double shot espresso, but the kind that comes in a can. And a bag of pretzels. Oh, and one more thing -- I was late to lunch that day, because I had to stay behind in English to make up a quiz.

 **PETER:** So nothing from the cafeteria that day?

 **SAM:** No, and thank God. I mean, considering.

 **PETER:** What happened after?

 **SAM:** So, like I said, usually I have lunch in the library. But ever since the first _American Vandal_ came out -- I’m allowed to plug that, right? Our intellectual property and everything? -- a bunch of people have suddenly started being super friendly. I’m not dumb or anything, I know they’re just doing it because of the doc -- but it still felt really nice, you know? Ever since moving here I’ve only really made one friend, so it was a really nice change of pace.

So Drew and I are in the library, and I’m really rushing to finish this essay on World War I in this mocha-double-shot induced writing extravaganza, and suddenly somebody zips by our table, down the aisle, around the corner -- straight to the bathroom. Drew and I kind of looked at each other, because honestly, it was a little funny out of context. People have bad reactions to school food all the time.

But then someone else ran by. And then another. And another. Both guys and girls. And they all had the exact same look on their faces: pure, abject terror.

Then I heard the first toot, and then it was all over.

 **PETER:** What do you mean?

 **SAM:** Pete. School bathrooms are already tiny. The ones in the library -- they’re single-stall. They can only fit one person at a time. We could hear people banging on the doors. Even Sister DeMille, the librarian, went down to see what was going on. She was probably going to tell them to shut up, honestly.

But then she screamed. Like, honest to God screamed bloody murder. And that’s when I knew.

We went out into the hallway and that’s when the smell hit. It was like some tragic scene from the trenches in World War I: some kids were crying, there were puddles everywhere, some chunkier than others. I saw some girl running, and she slipped and fell in a different person’s shit. It was like, straight up something out of _Black Mirror._

 **PETER:** Sam.

 **SAM:** Uh, straight up something out of a critically acclaimed sci-fi anthology on a streaming giant.  
       _Note: It was at this point Sam fixed me with a patented look that he liked to  call “Shut the hell up, Peter.” I retaliated with my “No,_ you _shut up, Sam, copyright laws are very real,” look, and then Ming coughed in the background to remind us to please keep the interview going._ _  
__Note on the note: Yeah, ‘cause you guys are weird. Stop having nonverbal conversations mid-interview. --MZ_

Anyway, the cops came. Even an ambulance. No one knew what the fuck was happening. All the school could do was call off classes for the rest of the day.

I went home. And then … I got tagged in a video.

 **PETER:** Can you show the camera? And read out the caption.

 **SAM:** Huh? I sent it to you in the email. Oh … oh, right. Yeah, one sec … So -- so I was tagged by this guy, @theturdburglar. It’s like, panning around at the shit-filled trench hallway, and there’s me and Drew, right there, right outside the library. See?

  
And the caption: _@ogsamecklund,_ _Solve this. #shitlockholmes._

* * *

 _Green,_ Peter thinks as he hits the _record_ button on the camera for the second time, ending the session. He’d been looking at the monitor, and Sam’s eyes had most definitely, positively, read green.

“You believe me, right?” Sam says as he stands up to unhook the mic from his shirt collar.“What I said about the Brownout.”

Peter nods. “Of course. But I have to be impartial. I can’t rule you and Drew out completely.”

“That’s fair.” He shrugs off his cardigan and pulls out the mic’s battery pack. “God, I forgot how hot these things can get.”

It’s weird. Peter’s here, in Bellevue, at one of the most affluent schools in the country, face to face with someone he hasn’t seen in six months. Hearing his voice for the first time in three. Hearing him physically talk about this _Drew_ guy.

(How that had stung him even more in person than he’d anticipated.)

Before Chloe had given him and Ming a ride to St. Bernardine, Peter had stood in front of the bathroom mirror, staring at himself. At his thick eyebrows, his blunt chin. He tried to see himself the way Sam would see him, for the first time since March. He wondered if he’d changed. If Sam had changed. Then he tried to pretend he didn’t care.

Then, they left.

But the characteristic swoop in Sam’s hair. The freckles on the bridge of his nose, now pale from the cold. How they could still effortlessly hold a wordless conversation. Those things hadn’t changed.

Including the butterflies. The electricity. The “I don’t see anyone else” feeling. Peter had felt all of the above when Sam came in. He’d looked up over Ming’s shoulder and saw Sam, and Sam saw him  -- and he strode past the desks, sidestepped the camera chords, pretty much ignored Ming’s splutter of recognition, and wrapped his arms around Peter in what could only be considered a bone-crushing hug.

“Peter!” Sam had said.

“Hi,” was all Peter could manage at the time. He’s not good at goodbyes, and today he’d discovered he’s not good at reunions, either. “Hi. Hi.”

Now, some twenty-odd minutes later, Sam is holding out the battery pack, saying something about needing to head off to his religion class, but maybe they can all meet up again later, and Peter replies with a profound “Um.” His head is still spinning from the case and the way Sam had smelled when they’d hugged and just the fact that Sam is _here,_ and his brain and mouth haven’t had quite enough time to sync up yet.

“Drew could be there, too, you can finally meet him,” Sam says, slinging his bag over his shoulder. “It’ll be fun.”

Peter looks down, messes with the chord on the battery pack. For the past half hour, it had felt like a balloon had been swelling, rising, in his chest, but Sam’s words now feel like a needle pressing into the elastic. “Um,” he says again. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

Peter can’t look at him just yet, but the hurt is evident in Sam's voice. “What? Why?”

_You moved on. You don't seem to miss me as much as I missed you. I'm fucking jealous of this Drew Pankratz guy and honestly I don't know if I can even be civil around him._

“Uh-- the doc is what’s important. And anyway, I’m sure I’ll meet Drew through the interviews at some point. And don’t forget, you’re part of this case. I can’t --”

“Right, right. Impartiality.” Sam’s voice is a shade cooler than it had been before. “I get it. So… I’ll see you around, I guess. You too, Ming.”

And then he was gone.

Peter leans back against a desk, the battery pack still in hand, and lets out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. Ming drops into a desk with a great sigh.

“Peter, you are the most goddamn romantically inept person I’ve ever known.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i really had a lot of fun with the transcription section! i think it'll be something i continue periodically throughout this fic. 
> 
> i've also edited the first chapter a little bit. nothing earth-shaking, just some turns of phrase that had really bothered me the first time around. also, this fic has officially gone into a "?" multichapter. it'll end when it'll end, hahaha. 
> 
> as always, come say hi to me on tumblr @connorsquarter! oowoo


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